Deus Irae

by Philip K. Dick

  “Do you think I’ll destroy it?” Tibor said.

  “Yes.” The face disappeared, barely speaking its last word. The sky, once again blue, formed a hollow bowl vault erected by giants—or by gods. From some deep-seated, early period on the Earth, perhaps back in the Cambrian period.

  After a moment Tibor let go of his derringer; sitting in his cart, he had held it out of sight. What would have happened, he conjectured, if I had tried to kill him? Nothing, he decided. The body I saw him in was, undoubtedly, what he claimed it to be: a manifestation of something incorruptible.

  I never could have tried, he realized. It was a bluff. But the God of Wrath didn’t know that; unless of course he was omnipotent, as the Christians believe their God to be.

  What in the name of god would it be if I had killed him? he asked himself. How the world would feel without him … there is so damn little to cling to, these days.

  Anyhow, the bastard left, he said to himself. So I didn’t have to. At least not this time. I would kill him under certain circumstances, he realized suddenly. But what circumstances? He shut his eyes, rubbed them with his manual extensor, scratched his nose. If he were trying to destroy me? Not necessarily. It had to do more with the complexities of Lufteufel’s mind, rather than with outside circumstances. The God of Wrath had personality; he was not a force. Sometimes he labored for the good of man, and back in the war days, he had virtually annihilated mankind. He had to be propitiated.

  That was the key. Sometimes the God of Wrath descended to do good; at other times, evil. I could kill him if he was acting out of malice … but if he was doing good, even if it cost me my life I’d do it.

  Grandiose, he ruminated. The pride, hubris. The “all puffed up” syndrome. It’s not for me, he decided. I have always lain low. Somebody else, a Lee Harvey Oswald type, can go in for the big kills. The ones that really mattered.

  He sighed. Well, so it went. But this was special. In all his years as a Servant of Wrath he had never possessed a mystical event, had never found God by any means, really. It’s like finding out that Haydn was a woman; it just isn’t possible to lay it aside, after it’s happened.

  And also, true mystical experiences changed the beholder. As William James pointed out in another world at another time.

  He gave me my missing parts, he thought. Legs, arms—and then he took them back. How can a deity do that? It was, put very simply, sadistic. To have arms, to look like everyone else. Not to be an upright trunk in a cow cart. I could run, he thought. Through sea water, at the ocean beaches. And with my hands I would fashion a variety of objects … think how well I could paint. Most of my creative limitations come from the damn apparatus I have to use. I could be so much more, he told himself.

  Will the ’chardin blue jay come back? he wondered. If it was a manifestation of the Deus Irae then probably it won’t.

  In that case, he asked himself, what should I do?

  Nothing. Well, he could shout in his bullhorn. Experimentally, he fished out the bullhorn, snapped the switch on, and said boomingly, “Now hear this! Now hear this! Tibor McMasters is caught in the hills and expects to die. Can you help me? Does anybody hear this?”

  He clicked off the bullhorn, sat for a moment. Nothing else he could do. Nothing at all.

  He sat slumped over in his cart, waiting.

  ELEVEN

  Pete Sands said to the children, “Think back. Did you see a partial person riding in a cart pulled by a cow? You’d remember that, wouldn’t you? Yesterday, late in the afternoon. Remember?” He scanned their faces, trying to learn something. Something which they did not want him to know about.

  Maybe they killed him, Pete said to himself.

  “I’ll give you a reward if you tell me,” he said, reaching into his coat pocket. “Here—hard rock candy made only from pure white sugar.” He held the candy out to the gang of kids surrounding him, but no one accepted it. Their dark faces turned upward, they silently watched him, as if curious to know what he intended to do.

  At last a very small child reached up for the candy. Pete gave it to him; the boy accepted it wordlessly, then pushed his way backward out of the ring. Gone—and with him the candy.

  “I’m his friend,” Pete said, gesturing. “I’m trying to find him so I can help him. There’s rough terrain around here; he could get hired down or his cow could fall … he may be lying by the side of the path, dead or dying.”

  Several of the children grinned. “We know who you are,” they piped. “You’re a puppet of old Dr. Abernathy; you believe in the Old God. An’ the inc, he refreshed us in our catechism.”

  “To the God of Wrath?” Pete said.

  “You better believe it,” two older boys squawked. “This is where he live, not that Old Man on the cross.”

  “That’s your opinion,” Pete said. “I differ. I’ve known the Old God, as you put it, for many years.”

  “But he didn’t bring the war.” The boys continued to grin.

  “He did more,” Pete said. “He created the universe and everything in it. We all owe our existences to him. And from time to time he intervenes in our lives, to help us. He can save any of us and all of us … or if he feels like it, he can let us all remain in a graceless state, the condition of sin. Is that your preference? I hope not, for the sake of your eternal souls.” He felt irritable about it; the children annoyed him. On the other hand, they were the only people who could tell him if Tibor had passed this way.

  “We worship he who can do anything he wants,” a boy shrilled. The others at once took up the utterance. “Yeah, we worship he who can do anything, anything at all he wants.”

  “You’re philothanes,” Pete said.

  “What’s that, Mr. Man?”

  “Lovers of death. You worship one who tried to end our lives. The great heresy of the modern world. Thanks anyhow.” He stormed off, weighed down by the pack on his shoulders; he put as much distance between the children and himself as possible.

  The jeers of the children dimmed behind him, then died entirely.

  Good. He was alone.

  Squatting down, he opened his pack, rummaged about in it until he came upon his battery-operated radio gear; he lifted it out, set it up on its stiltlike legs, pushed the earphone into place, and cranked up the transmitter. “Dr. Abernathy,” he said into the microphone. “This is Pete Sands reporting.”

  “Go ahead, Pete,” Dr. Abernathy’s voice sounded in his ear.

  Pete said, “I’m pretty certain I’ve picked up his trail.” He told Dr. Abernathy about the SOWer children. “If they hadn’t seen him,” he pointed out, “then there would be nothing for them to protect. And they were protecting. I’m going to continue on this path.”

  “Good luck to you,” Dr. Abernathy said, dryly. “Listen, Pete; if you do find him, don’t do anything to him.”

  “Why not?” Pete said. “In our conversation a day or so ago, when you and I—”

  “I never told you to follow McMasters. And I never told you to stop him or harm him.”

  “No, you didn’t,” Pete admitted. “But you did say, ‘When the inc returns with a photograph of the Deus Irae and begins on his murch, it will constitute a decided gain for the SOWers and for Father Handy in particular.’ It’s not difficult to deduce from that what you really want, and what would be best for the Old Church.”

  “It is the greatest sin,” Dr. Abernathy said, “to kill. The commandment reads, ‘Do not kill.”’

  “It reads, ‘Do not murder,”’ Pete answered. “There are three Hebrew verbs that mean kill or something like kill; in this case the word meaning murder is ‘employed.’ I checked the Hebrew source myself. And I know what I’m talking about.”

  “Nevertheless—”

  Pete interrupted, “I won’t hurt him. I have no intention of doing him any harm.” But, he thought, if Tibor McMasters does lead me to the God of Wrath—so-called—I will … what will I do? he asked himself. We’ll see, he decided. “How’s Lurine?” he said,
changing the subject.

  “Fine.”

  “I know what it is I’m doing,” Pete said. “Just let me do what I have to, Father. It’s my own responsibility, not yours, if you don’t mind my speaking so directly.”

  “And you,” Dr. Abernathy said, “are my responsibility.”

  A short silence.

  “I’ll report to you twice a day,” Pete said. “I’m sure we can come to an agreement. And of course Tibor McMasters may never find Carl Lufteufel, so probably what we’re saying is academic.”

  “I will pray for you,” Dr. Abernathy said.

  The circuit fell apart; Dr. Abernathy had hung up. Pete, shaking his head and grunting, placed the radio gear back in his shoulder-pack. He sat crouched down for a time, then got out a pack of Pall Malls and lit up one of his few precious cigarettes.

  Why am I here? he asked himself. Have I been sent here by my superior? Was I supposed to derive this assertion from the conversation he and I had back in town … or did I read something into what the doctor was saying? Hard to be sure, he thought. If I do commit a crime, or a sin, Dr. Abernathy can disavow it. He “won’t know,” the way the old-time gangsters used to say about a rubout. Churches and the Cosa Nostra have something in common: a sort of pristine indifference at the very top levels. All the malignant chores fall to the smallfries down at the bottom.

  Of which I am one, he informed himself.

  He did not like such thoughts; he sought to thrust them away. However, they refused to go.

  “Father in Heaven,” he prayed as he carefully smoked his cigarette, “let me know what to do. Should I continue to follow Tibor McMasters or should I give up on moral grounds? But there’s another point: I can help Tibor—he shouldn’t be going so far in his cow cart. I would of course help him, were he to get stuck or damaged or injured; that goes without saying. So my trip is not patently malign; it could be in a good cause, a humanitarian search to find an inc who, in point of fact, may be already dead. Aw, the hell with it.” He abandoned his prayer and sat brooding.

  The day had become warm. In a thousand thickets around him, insects and birds scuttled, and on the ground itself several small animals could be seen, each following the sacred drive within that Jehovah had instilled in it to cherish and protect it. He finished his cigarette, tossed the butt into a tangled growth of bindweed and wild oats.

  Now, where would he have gone from here? Pete asked himself. He got out his map and studied it. I’m about here, he told himself as he marked a spot. Close to the Great C … I don’t want to get near that damn thing. But suppose it snatched up Tibor McMasters? I may have to go there after all.

  “Damn it,” he snarled, aloud. He did not feel very Christian, while meditating about that feral electronic entity left over from prewar days. Why didn’t it just wear out and die? he wondered. What is God’s purpose that He lets it continue, as it does? A menace to every organic creature in a five-mile radius.

  I’ll be damned if I’m going that way, he informed himself. If Tibor’s in there, well, then I am just out of luck. And so is he—after all, I’m trying to help him. Or am I? He felt utterly confused. I won’t know either way until the time comes, he realized. Like an existentialist, I will infer my state from the actions I perform. Thought follows deed, as Mussolini taught. In Anfang war die Tat, as Goethe says in Faust. In the beginning was the deed, not the word, as John taught, John and his Logos doctrine. The Greekization of theology.

  From his pack he got out a pair of binoculars; with them he scanned the horizon, trying to see what lay ahead for him. The world, a teeming zoo. Species here that don’t exist there. Creatures that everyone feared, and creatures no one even knew about. Human, suprahuman, quasihuman, pseudohuman … every type imaginable and a few that were not.

  There, to the right, lay the abode of the Great C. Well, he would damn well not go that way. Alternate routes? He peered about, enjoying the light-gathering properties of the binocular’s prisms. Fields, with human and robot farmers tramping the acrid earth … hard to tell the robots from the live ones. From dust to dust, he said to himself. Dann es gehet dem Menschen wie dam Vier; wie dies stirbt, so stirbt mer auch. As it goes with man, so goes it with the animals: as one dies so dies the other.

  What does it mean, “to die”? he wondered. Uniqueness always perishes. Nature works by overproducing each species; uniqueness is a fault, a failure of nature. For survival there should be hundreds, thousands, even millions of one species, all interchangeable—if all but one dies, then nature has won. Generally it loses. But himself. I am unique, he realized. So I am doomed. Every man is unique and hence doomed.

  A melancholy thought.

  He looked at his wristwatch. Tibor had been gone sixty-two hours. How far could a cow cart travel in sixty-two hours? Damn far. The snail’s pace would be constant, chipping away, wearing away the miles. Probably he is forty or so miles from Charlottesville, Pete decided. Better to assume the worst.

  I wonder if he senses me following him, he wondered.

  What would the inc do? Apparently he was armed; Ely had said something about that. Tibor of course would act to protect himself; as would anyone else. In his pack Pete had four .38 cartridges and a police special revolver. I can blow him to bits with that, Pete observed. And I would if he fired on me first. We would both act to preserve our lives; that is God’s instinct. We have no choice.

  Out here, away from town, both of them were waging a dying battle against the Antagonist. In the form of decay, the Antagonist fed on both of them; he fed on the bodies of the living, making them revert to their final earthly state … from which God would lift them when the time approached. Resurrection of the body, of a perfect, uncorruptible ultimate body which could not decay or perish or be changed for better or worse. The blood and the body are not the flesh which hung on the cross. Et cetera. That, believed even by the heretics of the Wrath Church: a universal belief, now. With no question. Tibor, ahead of him, must have thought the same thoughts as he jogged along in his cow cart, bumped and rolled and wheezed over the arid terrain. We are united, he and I, by this one common thread of dogma. For an instant we are one person, McMasters and I. I feel it. But it never lasts. Like uniqueness, it perishes.

  All the good things perish, Pete thought. Here, anyhow; in this world. But in the next they are like Plato’s matrix theory: they are beyond loss and destruction.

  In an emergency Tibor’s cow would run. So he can move faster than me, Pete conjectured. If he knows I’m after him, he can bolt, get up good speed, and leave me here. Which maybe is the better outcome, all things considered. He lives, I live … we go on as we are. Except we couldn’t go on as we are, because Tibor will have either still photos of the Deus of Wrath or movie footage. How about that? A sobering thought. The effect on Charlottesville—impossible to predict. Too many possibilities, and most of them bad.

  Strange, he thought. We care only about our own little town; we do not worry about a victory by the God of Wrath out here, in the rest of the world—we think only of our puny area. That is what has become of us, since the war, he realized. Our horizons have sunk; our worldview has withered. We are like old ladies, scratching in the dust with rheumatic claws. Scraping the same little area for what nutriment can be found. Here I am out here and I am afraid; I want to go back to Charlottesville, and probably the inc feels the same way. We are wayfaring strangers out here, unhappy and tired, longing to return to our own land.

  A female figure approached him, walking over the dreary land barefoot, her arms extended.

  The extension of the Great C.

  TWELVE

  “Have you heard of Albert Einstein?” the female extension of the great computer said, and it seized him in a grip of iron; its large metal hands folded over his own.

  “Relativity,” Pete said. “The theory of—”

  “Let’s go below where we can discuss this,” the extension said, pulling him toward it.

  “Oh no,” he said. He had listened to ta
les all his life about the ruined, semialive construct. As a child he had feared it, dreaded this moment of encounter. And now it had come. “You can’t compel me to go below,” he said, and he thought of the acid bath into which its victims fell. Not for me, he said to himself, and strained to extricate his hands; he put all his strength into it, trying to slide him fingers from its grip.

  “Ask me a question,” the extensor said, still tugging him; involuntarily he moved several steps in its direction.

  “Okay,” Pete grated. “Did a phocomelus come by here recently on a little cart?”

  “Is that your first question?” it asked.

  “No,” he said. “It’s my only question. I don’t want to play games with you; your games are destructive and terrible. They kill people. I know about you.” How, he wondered, did Tibor get past this? Or perhaps he did not get past; perhaps he had died below in darkness, among the swishing sounds of the receptacle of acid.

  Who rigged that up for it in the dim days? Pete wondered. Nobody knew. Perhaps even the Great C did not know. The malignant creature that had rigged up the acid tank probably had been the first to perish in it. And his fear became stronger. It overwhelmed him. What Earth has bred in such few short years, he thought. Such metastases of horror.

  “Yes,” the Great C said. “A phocomelus came by here recently, and shot one of my ambulatory members in the brain-pan. He smote it and it died.”

  “But you have others,” Pete said, panting. “Like the one you have holding me. You have plenty of them. But someday someone human or maybe not human—anyhow someone will come by and put an end to you. I wish I could.”

  “Is that your second question?” it asked. “Whether someone will at last come by to destroy me?”

  “That was not a question,” Pete said. That was faith, he thought. Pious belief that evil things die.

  The Great C said, “One time Albert Einstein came here and consulted me.”